


and upon her head a crown of stars

by majesdane



Series: we tell our stories differently [2]
Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:29:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: "Come now, General," Willa says, in a saccharine voice. "We've had this conversation once before, haven't we?"| Willa, Petra, and a plan of sedition.
Series: we tell our stories differently [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919194
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	and upon her head a crown of stars

disillusion can become itself an illusion / if we rest in it.  
— t.s. eliot, "the cocktail party"

to some we seem like colder creatures, well, / we were warm until we went to hell  
— the hush sound, "hourglass"

* * *

"General."

The tent flaps open, and one of privates standing watch at the entrance pokes her head in. "There's a Lieutenant Collar here to see you, ma'am." She frowns, clearing her throat nervously. "Says it's important."

Petra leans back in her chair, steeling herself as Willa strides in with a determined look on her face. Before Petra can speak, Willa sings a silencing Seed to avoid their conversation being overheard.

"Our plan," Willa says coolly, leaning forward on Petra's makeshift desk, fingers splayed out over a topographical map of Greenville. "It's time."

*

Perhaps it would be best to start from the beginning:

Petra is twenty-two when she graduates from War College, top of her class and already poised to be promoted to sergeant. That itself is hardly an achievement — in fact, anything _less_ would be considered dismal failure considering the Bellweather legacy. But one thing Petra has mastered, better than her older sisters, is the ability to read people; to glean the perfect way to win someone over from a look or bit of conversation. Or . . . determine the best way to strong arm them.

But Petra prefers a more delicate approach. To quote a saying she learned from another top student that she befriended over the last eighteen months: _ants go to sweet things_.

A week after her graduation, she's assigned to a six month tour: a peace-keeping mission, which mostly means ferreting out Spree agent cells embedded deep in rural communities.

Normally, blue-blood High Atlantics like herself are awarded cushy desk jobs following War College, but Petra has grander ambitions than that. She doesn't only want to lead — she wants to prove her prowess in battle. The first Bellweathers didn't make names for themselves relaxing on the homefront in climate-controlled offices; they were out in the muck with all of the other less distinguished bloodlines. 

Enlisted troops are only as strong as their faith in their commanding officers, and Petra intends to make it clear that she is a woman of action, someone unafraid to fight shoulder-to-shoulder with a common foot soldier.

The time for sitting back and taking command will come later. Right now, it's about developing a reputation.

On her first day in Lost Hills, they're assigned to tents of three. Petra meets her bunk-mates minutes later: Sergeants Wilhelmina Collar and Astoreth L'Amara. Petra's familiar with Astoreth — a resident of Fort Salem whose family line stretches back to the early days of the military — but they've never been close.

Petra's unfamiliar with Necro Work, and can't deny the tiny flame of excitement that ignites in her at the thought of finally witnessing it firsthand. Blasters may hold the most distinguished specialization, but there's something intriguing about Work considered so off-putting and shrouded in relative secrecy.

Wilhelmina — or Willa, as she introduces herself — is a Fixer of middling height, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, with a distinct Cession drawl. Unlike Petra and Astoreth, she's not a War College graduate, but is already fresh from her second tour. 

Later, Petra will discover the reason for Willa's constant deployment: marriage to a civilian, a grave sin in the eyes of the military. The information leaves a sour taste in Petra's mouth. Love and lust are things she can understand; she had her fair share of civilian boys before she took the Oath. But marriage is an entirely different matter. She doesn't understand how a witch could marry a civilian. It's a betrayal of their _culture_. 

Still, Petra's a Bellweather with an image to uphold, which means she's happy to bite her tongue and play nice. So long as Willa pulls her weight.

"What's a Bellweather doin' out in the field?" Willa asks, shaking Petra's hand. "I thought you high and mighty types were exempt from this sorta thing."

Astoreth's smile is tense, her eyes darting back and forth between them. She clears her throat. "Petra's not a typical High Atlantic," she offers placidly. "She actually _volunteered_ to be here."

Willa raises an eyebrow, folding her arms. "Oh, really? Guess you're not _so_ bad then, I suppose."

*

On the final day of tour, when everyone's exhausted and aching to go home, Willa hands them both a small charm for their dress blues sashes. A tiny bone-white feather, lovingly crafted.

"I made them for everyone in our Unit," Willa explains. "In the Cession, white feathers symbolize bravery."

Through all their skirmishes with the Spree, Willa's proven herself to be a reliable soldier and a skilled — if unorthodox — Fixer. Petra has only ever heard bad things about Cession witches — that they can't sing Seeds, that their bloodlines aren't worth spit — but she's beginning to reconsider.

A little.

"Thanks," Astoreth says, admiring the charm.

Astoreth looks so genuinely pleased that Petra can't help but feel warmed by it by proxy. She cradles hers in her palm, already imagining pinning it to her sash. 

And thus begins a beautiful friendship.

Well —

Something like that.

*

Spring, 2016.

While walking the perimeter of camp, Willa runs into Petra Bellweather.

She's been on numerous tours with Petra as her commanding officer, but for a long time now they've interacted only when protocol dictates. Willa doesn't mind; Petra's grown into her Bellweather name, climbing the ranks and rubbing elbows with politicians and High Atlantics alike. Long passed are the days when she was a wide-eyed twenty year-old on her first tour. 

But she still wears that old feather charm as proudly as any other combat trophy, so Willa can't hate her entirely. Nostalgia is a powerful weapon, and Petra wields it well. Willa's awareness of this fact, however, has yet to make her immune to it entirely. 

"You're up late, General," Willa remarks, as Petra falls into step beside her. 

Petra waves her off. "There's no need for formalities, Willa; we go back too far. Besides, I've left my entourage back at the tent." She nods in the direction of camp, tucking her hands behind her as she walks. "I couldn't sleep. I thought the night air might clear my head a little.

They make small talk at first; both of their daughters will be at Fort Salem in a few years. Willa listens to Petra drone on about how accomplished Abigail is, how she'll be another fine addition to the Bellweather matriline's long list of accomplishments.

Raelle, sixteen and sullen, her eyes red-rimmed from crying every time Willa has to break the news she's leaving for another tour. The way she holds on so tightly when they say goodbye, as if she could hold on hard enough to pull Willa free of the military's grasp. The endless letters she sends.

Raelle, so small and soft-hearted — but so strong, too. And capable of more than she knows; her Fixing skill already far surpasses Willa's own at that age. 

Willa keeps her letters stored in a shoebox bound tightly with string. Sometimes, when she's exhausted from Fixing and the endless parade of gore and death and wide eyes glossy with fear and hurt, she re-reads them, tracing the sigil she taught Raelle to make with a fingertip. It's only a shadow of Raelle, Willa knows, but sometimes it's the only real thing she has.

She's tired of always being away from her family. 

When at last they lapse into silence, the crunch of dirt and gravel under their boots the only thing breaking the silence, Willa chews on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. Over the past few weeks, a plan has started to form in her mind. It's stupid and reckless, but from the second it sprung into her mind on one cold, wet afternoon, she hasn't been able to think of anything else.

And she's fairly certain that she'll be able to convince Petra of its worth.

But it's a delicate subject to broach. So she starts off simple:

"We both know the Spree have been escalating these past couple of years. Alder doesn't — won't listen."

Petra snorts. "Of course not. Alder thinks she knows everything. She's let this get out of hand."

"Something's up, Petra," Willa says as they pass two Privates keeping watch at their outpost. "Don't you think it's strange? That cell in Odienné last month. The increasingly violent attacks on civilians. And then there's all the whispers of witches being found executed — "

Petra waves her hand dismissively. "I don't care about rumors."

"But you agree Alder's no longer fit to lead."

Petra pauses, mid-step, frowning. 

"That's seditious talk, Lieutenant," she warns, eyes dark and suspicious. "I'd watch your step."

She's all business now, her tone cold and threatening.

Willa knows how easily Petra could have her court-martialed for even the _implication_ of a coup. For all of her ability to Fix — and _well_ , as far as Willa's concerned — in the heat of battle, Willa's wretchedly aware that her marital status hasn't garnered her much sympathy from the military. In fact, she's certain her Fixing abilities are the _only_ thing that have kept her afloat all this time.

One wrong word and she'll be shipped off to the Caribbean for a permanent vacation.

Assuming execution is off the table, of course. Alder might prefer to make an example of her.

Willa straightens, folding her arms behind her back. "Come now, General," she says, in a saccharine voice. "We've had this conversation once before, haven't we?"

She's always despised Petra's penchant for manipulation and subtle blackmail. But Willa's learned from the best, and it would be a shame to not put such a skill into practice.

Nearly half a decade ago, they'd sat in Petra's tent and enjoyed a bottle of whiskey until Petra, tipsy and uncharacteristically forward, confessed her doubts about Alder's leadership qualities. 

She had called Willa in to Fix the shrapnel wound on her arm. She peeled off her combat jacket with a grunt of pain, her gray undershirt saturated with blood. 

"You're the only Fixer who won't fuss over me," Petra explained with a grumble, sinking onto her cot.

It was true — and not _entirely_ because things had grown chilly between them in the years since they first met. Willa knew Petra was perfectly capable of looking after herself. Especially when it came to taking care of a routine injury.

So Willa had Fixed her and Petra offered a drink as they sat and talked about their first tour together, decades ago. Those were halcyon days — for _Petra_ , who remembered nothing but youthful confidence and boundless opportunity. It was quite different for Willa, who could only recall the slow realization that her future held nothing but endless deployment and bitter homesickness.

Willa listened attentively as Petra's mood soured, grumbling about Alder's steadfast loyalty to the old ways; her unwillingness to use new and unconventional tactics against the Spree. 

_Remember this_ , Willa told herself. _Someday you'll be able to use it._

In the present, Petra's expression relaxes just enough for Willa to know she's not actually in any trouble.

"It's not an uncommon sentiment," Petra agrees lightly, after a long moment. "Even among some at The Hague."

Willa toys with her wedding ring, trying to settle her nerves. For a brief moment, she considers not taking this any further. Petra holds all the cards here; she's let Willa get away with more talk than any other C.O. would allow. Pushing any further might be unwise.

But there is opportunity here — she would be a fool not to pounce on it. This may be her only chance. 

Willa waits until they've reached the furthest perimeter point from camp, then sings a Silencing Seed before she says, bluntly, "I have means to infiltrate the Spree."

Petra's face clouds with suspicion. "What are you talking about?"

Willa takes a deep breath and lays the entire plan out for her — 

The Cession's a lawless land, and Dodgers come through all the time seeking respite from the Military Police's constant patrols. People keep to themselves in the small towns, but there's still _talk_ if you know the right questions to ask. Dodgers might shy away from the Spree themselves, but Willa's heard enough whispers to know they can point her in the right direction.

It's a simple enough plan: she'll become a double agent. She and Petra can feed each other information and use it to mount a twofold attack on Alder. Crippling her in the war against the Spree by leaking vital intel is the first step; once Petra's used her wealth and influence to wrest the leadership position away from Alder, Petra will hand over every single piece of information she's gathered on the Spree.

All easier said than done, of course. But what other options are there? 

"Your husband's a civilian," Petra says flatly, after a long moment. There's no malice in it, just a plain statement of fact. "I'm curious. What's in it for you? Seems like I'd be the one to reap all the benefits."

"I'm doin' this for my family."

The answer seems to take Petra by surprise.

"The system is broken," Willa continues. "Don't be mistaken; I'd love to see it burned to the ground. But right now, I'll settle for a change in power. All I ask is that you let me and my daughter off with a special dispensation — and full pensions."

Petra sighs and crosses her arms, her expression grim. Willa watches her mull everything over. 

Overhead, the stars shine in the inky black sky. If Willa looks up, she can pretend for a moment that she's back home, leaning against Edwin while Raelle shuffles around upstairs, readying herself for bed.

God, she _misses_ them so. Her husband and daughter and all those tiny little moments of peace. 

"It's a terrible plan," Petra decides, finally breaking the silence. "A million things can and probably will go wrong. And Goddess knows what will happen if Alder catches wind of this."

But she sticks out her hand towards Willa anyway. "Shall we, then?"

*

Months pass.

One year fades into another.

The end of Willa's tour looms; she circles the date on her calendar, ticking off each wearisome day.

She and Petra haven't spoken about the plan since that evening. 

_We need to be careful_ , Petra cautions, once, when Willa tries to bring it up, lingering behind after a briefing. _The timing has to be right._

Willa's tired of waiting. She intends to hold Petra to her promise, come hell or high water. 

But it's been this long already. What's another year or two?

*

Here Willa is now, come to collect.

Petra grits her teeth. "If this should fail — "

"It won't."

Her confidence sets Petra on edge.

There's so much riding on this — too much, going far beyond calculated risk. It would be one thing to simply fake Willa's death and have her run off to be a Dodger. She'd be the Military Police's problem then, and Petra would be happy to wash the whole ordeal off of her hands.

But she's acutely aware of the fact that Willa is, perhaps, the _only_ military veteran actually equipped to infiltrate the Spree.

Or — she's the only one Petra trusts enough to do it, Goddess help her.

Truthfully, Petra's not that worried about what might happen if Alder _were_ to find out about their plan. She's got enough friends in high places to ensure relative security away from the military's favored prison in Saint-Domingue, custom made for witches found guilty of treason. She wouldn't be locked up — she would be quietly shuffled out the door and given a nice fat pension. A disappointing end to an otherwise outstanding military career, but nothing to lose sleep over.

Abigail is a different story, however. Petra can pull strings, but she can't watch over her daughter every second of the day. 

Petra pushes away from her desk, standing up to meet Willa's sharp, determined gaze.

"Fine," she says. "But just remember: if this fails, it's on you."

Willa smirks. "Ah, Petra," she says, shaking her head, amused. "Just like a Bellweather to cower and shirk responsibility." 

She holds out her hand, just as Petra did a year earlier. Her palm is calloused, her grip firm.

*

Willa shuffles Raelle's letters together, setting them down lovingly in the shoebox.

She thinks of handing Edwin her bowerbird charm and a letter, addressed to Raelle. "Give them to her when she graduates Basic." 

She remembers kissing him; his warmth, the way his arms settled around her waist. Thinks of the shine in Raelle's eyes and how she sighed when Willa pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

"Be good," she whispered. "Make me proud."

She hopes they can forgive her.

**Author's Note:**

> you might notice the slight inclusion of astoreth, who appears in my izadora backstory fic. this is intended to be a series of loosely-connected works. sincerest thanks to [jacinto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacinto) and [here4rizzles](http://www.tumblr.com/here4rizzles) for looking this over.


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